


got me so high (and then she dropped me)

by Arbryna



Series: Champions of Kirkwall [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F, One Shot, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've been smitten with Isabela from the second she auditioned for the band, but never in a million years would you even think to make anything resembling the first move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got me so high (and then she dropped me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Maroon 5, "Lucky Strike", which is one of my Isabela theme songs.

Isabela's skin is really soft. 

Like really, really soft. 

Her legs are a solid weight on your lap, burning through the charcoal denim of your jeans. Her thigh-high boots are propped up against the side of the couch, leaving all that rich brown skin bare to your hands.

You don't remember when you started touching her. You think it was some time after the second joint, when you'd smoked enough to blur the edges of your nerves—when thinking became difficult, and thinking about what she'd say or do or think if you dared to initiate contact was all but impossible. 

Now you're just sort of relaxing, sunk into the back of the couch with Isabela's legs slung across your lap like they belong there—like there's no possible way you could object.

Well, to be fair, you never would. Even if it made your heart beat a rapid drum solo in your chest, and left you awkwardly pondering where to rest your sweaty palms. 

Your friends are all still talking, but the words just sort of float in and out of your ears, an off-beat background track to the harmony of physical sensations. Your head feels heavy, fuzzy—but in a good way, like the kind of buzz you get when you're onstage and everyone is cheering and nothing exists but the music thrumming through your veins, vibrating in your throat. 

Like the glare of the lights, bright and hot, is blocking out everything except the soft, warm skin beneath your fingers. You trace imprecise circles over the bend of a knee, trace the curve of a calf until it's crossed by another, move back up to start the meandering loop over again. 

Isabela moans. Soft, rumbling, appreciative. It twists your insides into knots that even her nimble fingers couldn't untangle. Something clenches deep in your belly at the thought of letting her try. 

Your hands freeze in place, clammy and nervous, as your heart runs scales in your chest. The dreamy haze of smoke has managed to distract you from the fact that the skin under your touch is attached to a person—one you're ridiculously desperate not to offend. 

Isabela uncrosses her ankles, nudges your thigh with a bare foot. You look up, panicked, but her eyes are half-lidded, lips pulled into a lazy smirk. "Don't stop," she purrs. 

If you were sober, you would probably stammer out an excuse and flee the room, escape to your bedroom where you could hide the awkward flush of your cheeks. You've been smitten with Isabela from the second she auditioned for the band, but never in a million years would you even think to make anything resembling the first move.

But you're not sober, and Isabela's skin feels so _good_ , and she just said not to stop, so it's not like she has a problem with it. You're not really capable of the higher thought required to feel embarrassed. 

So you start up again—slow at first, tight loops over Isabela's calf, but it's all too easy to lose yourself once again in the soft smooth expanse of skin. 

Your fingers get bolder, drifting up over the top of a muscled thigh, sliding down the inside as they retreat back to the relative safety of the knee. Isabela's skin is warmer the higher up you venture, and without any sort of conscious thought, you find yourself chasing that warmth, tracing the edge of Isabela's tight leather miniskirt and gradually slipping just underneath. 

Isabela's head falls back against the arm of the couch, and your mouth goes dry at the way her throat bobs with each little hum of approval. The gold of her jewelry glints in the low light of the room as it shifts on her chest. 

Her chest. God, you never stood a chance. Her breasts are full and round, stopping just shy of spilling over the low-cut tank top that constrains them. The contrast of bright white cotton against the deep bronze of her skin is one of the most gorgeous things you think you've ever seen. 

The sounds she's making grow more sensual, bass notes resonating deep in your belly. Her thighs start to press together under your hand as she squirms, almost half of her on your lap now. You haven't crossed any lines, not yet—you've restricted your touch to her legs, purposefully skirting the heat that beckons between them. 

Isabela's hips arch up, urging you without words to keep going, to press further. All you can think about is how badly you want to see how far she'll let you go.

"Jesus, get a room." 

Your brother's voice is harsh, discordant—a screeching rock anthem that disrupts the smooth, slow ballad you've been playing with your fingers. You look up at him, at his queasy sneer, and you remember that you and Isabela are not alone. The rest of the band—well, most of them anyway—is gathered in your den, and here you are with your hand shoved up Isabela's skirt. 

You're afraid to move, afraid to turn back and meet Isabela's eyes. Surely Isabela's realized that she can have anyone she wants, that she doesn't have to settle for an awkward wannabe rock star who can't even properly hit on fawning groupies. 

She doesn't push your hand away. Doesn't pull back in disgust. Her thigh flexes gently against your palm, and a quiet, contemplative sound hums in her throat. "That's not a bad idea," she finally says.

The shock of her words, of their meaning, makes you forget all the reasons you didn't want to look at her. The naked heat in Isabela's expression, in the fine arch of an eyebrow and sultry curve of full lips, makes everything in you clench. She's not kidding, not one bit. You've fantasized about this, about her, late at night when you're alone in your bed and the adrenaline from performing makes it impossible to sleep. You never thought it would actually _happen_.

The offer is clear. All you have to do is take it. 

What follows is a blur. Isabela's legs slide off of your lap, her calloused fingers curl around your hand. Soon you're being dragged toward the staircase, and a chorus of cheers and groans erupts only to do a quick fade into the rapid staccato of your pulse.

Upstairs, Isabela presses you against a door. Her cheek is warm and soft and dry, brushing against your own as she finds her balance.

Then she kisses you.

Her tongue is slick and hot, slipping easily past lips that part without any conscious thought. She tastes like weed and smoke and sweat, and something spicy underneath that makes pleasure curl at the base of your spine.

You rest your hands on her hips delicately, afraid that if you grip too tight it will all end and you'll wake up to realize this is all a drug-fueled dream. Her hands are nowhere near as meek, tangling in your hair as her teeth tug at your lips. 

Isabela's knee presses between your legs, and stars explode behind your eyelids. It's nothing short of a miracle when you realize that the door she has you pressed against is your sister's. You murmur a protest into her lips.

She chuckles, low and rich, and the sound sends heat flooding between your legs. "What a wake-up call that would be." She pulls away from your mouth, ignoring the soft whine that escapes your throat at the loss of her. Her lips and tongue work a path up your neck to your ear, where she nips at your earlobe before speaking again. "Maybe she'd want to join us." 

The thought makes you recoil—she's your _sister_ —but you really don't want this to end, either. For a moment you panic; maybe you're not enough for Isabela, maybe she just wants to check another box on those stupid purity tests you used to take in high school. 

"I'm kidding," Isabela says, laughing at your frozen expression. She presses a kiss next to your ear. "Where's your room, sweet thing?" 

It's only a couple of doors down, but it feels like eternity. When you finally reach your room and slip inside, she presses you up against the door. This time, you don't feel as awkward—you're high enough, or aroused enough, to leave your inhibitions out in the hall. 

Teeth and lips mark their way down your throat, a hot tongue swipes over your collarbone. You slip your hands under her tank top and your fingers slip over the sweat pooling at the small of her back. Her knee pushes between your legs again, and you moan in a way you know you've never heard before.

You're not a virgin by any means. Not all of your groupies are deterred by your awkward attempts at flirting. It's enough for some of them just to say that they hooked up with the front man of one of the most popular up-and-coming bands in the music scene. Something was always missing with them, though, and with the artless fumblings of your teenage years—a kind of heat, a passion, a need to touch and be touched and to feel the press of a sweat-slick body against your own. 

When Isabela whirls you around and pushes you back onto your bed, you can see that heat burning bright in amber eyes. You left the bedside lamp on earlier, and you're glad for it now. You can see the flex of her arms and legs as she climbs up to straddle your hips, see the way her lips turn up in a sultry smile as she dips her head to kiss you again. 

Her hips rock down into yours, and you can feel her heat through your jeans. Her skirt bunches up around her hips, and you follow it with your hands, venturing farther than you dared to downstairs. Your fingertips meet delicate lace, and you trace it back to where it disappears between supple cheeks and groan. You somehow knew that's what she'd be wearing. 

Skipping past leather and lace, you slip your hands under her tank top again, exploring the safer territory of her abdomen. The muscles ripple against your palms as she rolls her hips again. 

Your hands travel farther, sliding between cotton and lace to cover Isabela's breasts. You've wondered what it would feel like, to have the weight of them filling your hands; your imagination couldn't come close. 

Isabela pulls away, sits back on her heels, and you whimper as her breasts rise out of reach. But she's only pulling off the tank top, and her teeth flash in a smug grin as you're struck dumb at the sight of rich brown flesh filling black lace. 

Instead of leaning back down to pick up where she left off, Isabela reaches for your own shirts, pulling off red button-down and black tank top together before she lowers her mouth to your chest. Her mouth is hot on your breasts, her tongue sliding just under the edge of your bra. Then she shifts, one hand taking her full weight while the other reaches to pull a cup aside so that her mouth can close around a hard nipple. 

You're hardly aware of the sounds you're making, but you definitely notice how the skin of her back gives beneath your blunt nails, how she arches into you in a way that tells you just how much she likes that. Your own hands find her breasts again, pull at her nipples through the lace of her bra as your hips jerk desperately against hers. 

It's both a blessing and a curse when she pulls away again. You just want _more_ —more contact, more skin, more everything—but when her fingers deftly work the button of your jeans and yank the zipper open, you can't really complain.

She doesn't bother removing your pants—just shoves them down your hips far enough to slide her hand into your boring, cotton boyshorts and dip her fingers into the heat between your legs. 

You think you scream, then, just a little, but you can't be sure. Her fingers push into you, and your head jerks back against the mattress, your back arching as she thrusts once, twice—teasing, nothing more. 

Looking for a better angle, Isabela straddles your thigh, and you can feel slick fabric sliding against your skin as she grinds down onto it. You slip a hand between her legs, push aside that fabric to feel the slippery flesh underneath. 

Isabela moans, rewards you with another finger and a firm thrust. Your fingers stutter against her as your cry harmonizes with her own. When you regain enough of your senses, you slide your own fingers into her; your eyes slam shut at the hot clench of her around you. 

The harmony of your moans and sighs increases in tempo, working rapidly toward a crescendo you can feel down to tips of your toes. Isabela keeps perfect time, grinding down onto your fingers as she drives her own into you.

When you come, it's better than the loudest applause, better than a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. She plays you like you're her guitar, flicking and curling in just the right places, and the pleasure of it thrums in your veins even as you forget how to breathe. 

She's not far behind, crying out her release in a wild, uninhibited way that you're used to seeing onstage, but here in the privacy of your room, in the intimacy of this moment, it's more than breathtaking. It's almost impossible, how gorgeous she is. 

And relentless. She doesn't stop thrusting into you until you reach down with your free hand and gasp out a protest—and even then she continues to grind against your hand, shuddering three, four more times before she relaxes back on her heels. 

The air is thick with the smell of sex, and your pulse pounds beneath every inch of your skin. You're panting, slick with sweat, your hand sticky with her arousal, and your head is still fuzzy and slow from the pot. You don't realize what's happening until she's already slid off of you and rolled to the side of the bed. 

You ask her where she's going as she stands and tugs her skirt back down. She shrugs and reaches for her tank top.

"Anders had some music he wanted me to take a look at," she says, pulling her shirt back over her head. Her eyebrows waggle appreciatively as she looks down at your disheveled form. "That was fun though. We should do it again some time." 

The door clicks shut behind her as she leaves. You drop your head back into your blankets and sigh. You don't know what to feel—high, sated, hurt, used. She never promised anything, and you never asked. Maybe it was just sex, and maybe that's all it'll ever be.

It was damn good sex, though. You grin, close your eyes, turn your head into the blankets to catch the lingering scent of her sweat. She wants to do it again; that can be enough for now.


End file.
